


Leather and Lavender

by sparrow30



Series: Leather and Lavender [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, First Times, M/M, Marking, Rough Sex, Safewords, then GREAT sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow30/pseuds/sparrow30
Summary: Just over two decades after Geralt and Jaskier first meet - after thousands of miles traveled, hundreds of monsters vanquished, dozens of ballads made popular across the Continent, and one particularly damning conversation on the side of a mountain - the pair finally get their act together and fuck.The result is...something of a disappointment.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Leather and Lavender [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983458
Comments: 23
Kudos: 456





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Jaskier sees Geralt after the disaster that was Borch’s dragon hunt, he’s being somewhat unceremoniously booed out of the only tavern in a backwater village he hasn’t bothered to learn the name of.

Not the most auspicious of reunions, but the fates have never been kind to him when it comes to Geralt of Bloody Rivia now have they?

Their eyes lock, Jaskier holding his lute in front of him like the world’s most useless shield and Geralt clutching Roach’s reins so hard his knuckles have turned white, and Jaskier feels time screeching to an abrupt halt.

He’d promised himself that the mountain was it, the last time he’d be made a fool of by a certain white-haired Witcher. The maudlin songs that had led to his abrupt tavern departure notwithstanding, he does possess at least a modicum of self respect, and has no plans to debase himself further by begging for the chance to follow Geralt around like a lovesick puppy again.

Because that’s what he is, isn’t he? Not even Geralt at his most unobservant could mistake Jaskier’s affections for anything other than what they are...or were. Because it’s over now, he’s done. Done with this ridiculous fantasy that has in equal parts sustained and devastated him for the past  _ twenty fucking years _ .

Squaring his shoulders he forces himself to nod cordially at Geralt from across the street, before spinning on his heel and hastily making his way down the dirt track that leads out of town. He’ll camp in the forested outskirts, lying low for a couple of days to give Geralt enough time to complete whatever contract has brought him here and be on his way. Then, once he’s sure they won’t run into one another again, he’ll return to rebuild his reputation in this village with some more upbeat songs.

Not  _ Toss a Coin _ though, that song is going to require a serious rework before he adds it to his repertoire again.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier winces at the gruff timbre that still makes him weak despite everything, but forces himself not to look back as he marches onward.

“Jaskier, please.”

It’s the please that does it, a word so sparingly used by the Witcher that Jaskier’s feet are stopping before his brain has even registered what was said. With a defeated sigh he turns back towards Geralt, bracing himself to have his heart broken all over again.

“Hail, and well met!” He falls back to the stiltedly formal verbiage of his upbringing in a futile attempt to maintain some semblance of distance between them. “What brings you to this part of the Continent?”

Geralt hasn’t moved from the spot where Jaskier first saw him, and if Jaskier didn’t know any better he would have called the Witcher’s expression pained. 

“You, Jaskier. I’m here for you.”

Well. Fuck him then.

“Come again?” he says hesitantly, wondering if he’d misheard.

Geralt visibly steels himself before taking a step forward, then another, until he’s standing right in front of Jaskier, Roach by his side looking incredibly unimpressed with her owner’s antics. “I was an ass. And I’m sorry.”

Jaskier blinks rapidly, heartbeat kicking up a notch. “Okay, I think I might need to get checked by the local healer, because I’m pretty sure I just heard you say you’re sorry and that can’t possibly be-”

He’s cut off by the soft press of chapped lips against his own.

Geralt draws away almost immediately, something indecipherable flicking across his face before it settles back into something more generic, and Jaskier finds himself struck dumb as he slowly reaches up to trace his fingers along his lips, the ghost of the kiss still echoing across them.

“Geralt,” he practically whispers, unsure of what he even wants to say.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats. “You...I...You didn’t deserve what I said to you. I didn’t mean it.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jaskier replies to the first part of the statement, unsure if he believes the second part but not quite ready to question it. “What you said was cruel.  _ You _ were cruel.” He pauses, feeling the truth of his words in his heart. “You’re not usually cruel. It hurt.”

“I know.” Geralt looks genuinely ashamed as he reaches for Jaskier before abruptly stopping, like he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to touch.

Jaskier sighs heavily, suddenly feeling very tired indeed. “What is it you want from me, Geralt?”

“You,” Geralt replies instantly. “I just want you. It was...too quiet on the Path without you.”

That at least forces a surprised laugh out of Jaskier. “You know, you may well come to regret that statement.”

Geralt exhales, his expression a mixture between cautious and hopeful. “Does that mean you’re going to give me a chance to regret it?”

Jaskier makes a show of considering it, even though in reality his decision was made the second he stopped walking. “I suppose I’d be a fool to give up such a coveted opportunity now wouldn’t I?”

Geralt’s smile in response is practically blinding. It’s a smile that Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen directed at anyone other than Roach, and to be the recipient of it is slightly overwhelming.

“Did you mean to kiss me?” he blurts, unable to help himself in the face of such unexpected openness from the Witcher.

Geralt pauses, his smile dimming slightly. “Did you like it?” 

“What sort of question is that?  _ Of course _ I liked it.”

“Then yes, I meant it.”

Jaskier feels lighter than air, like he could very well float away at any minute. He’d imagined a potential reunion between the pair of them more times than he’d care to admit, but only his most extravagant (and shameful) fantasies had ended like this. “Oh, that’s nice. Can you do it again?” 

Geralt’s smile grows wide once more, and he does.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t even feel the stares of the patrons who jeered at him earlier as Geralt leads them upstairs to a room on the second floor of the tavern (after giving a quaking stableboy strict instructions to look after Roach in the manner to which she is accustomed). He’s had almost a lifetime of waiting for this exact moment; now that it’s here everything else is simply background noise.

Geralt’s lips are on his the second the door closes behind them, and unlike the chaste kisses of before now there’s heat behind the action. Jaskier moans and wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck, responding in kind. He licks and nips his way inside Geralt’s mouth, smiling into the kiss as Geralt readily grants him access. 

“Fuck, you taste so good,” Jaskier breaks away just long enough to say. “I always wondered what you’d taste like, but this is so much better than anything I came up with.”

Geralt hums from deep within his chest and surges back in for another kiss, and Jaskier absently files away the knowledge that his Witcher clearly isn’t comfortable with praise in the bedroom (yet).

He starts to guide them both towards the bed without coming up for air, clothing hastily removed and abandoned as they move, until his legs hit the wooden frame and they both topple down onto the soft mattress. Geralt lands on top of him, and Jaskier thrills at the feeling of being so completely encased by the Witcher’s powerful body. He reaches up with a shaking hand to trace over the muscled planes of Geralt’s torso. Gods, he’s barely let himself  _ dream _ of being able to do this, and now here Geralt is, firm and toned and  _ real _ underneath his fingertips. 

He doesn’t get the opportunity to enjoy it for long though, as almost immediately Geralt tenses up and he’s back on his feet, moving with surprising speed to dig through his saddlebags on the other side of the room. Jaskier props himself up on his forearms, fully intending to complain about this development until he sees Geralt pull out a distinctive pot and  _ oh, _ that’s interesting. How long has Geralt been carrying oil around with him?

Jaskier grins salaciously, more than ready to become intimately acquainted with those wonderful thick fingers he’s been not so subtly eyeing up for years, but when Geralt returns he silently presses the oil into Jaskier’s hands before positioning himself on all fours facing the headboard, the invitation clear as day. 

And okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly what Jaskier had been expecting from their first coupling, but stereotyping isn’t a good look on anyone and never let it be said that he’s not one to give his partners exactly what they want. So he uncorks the oil with a satisfying pop, grinning to himself at the full body shudder the noise elicits from the Witcher.

“Easy there,” he soothes, running a hand down Geralt’s spine before pouring some oil onto his fingers. “I’m going to make you feel so good, I promise.” 

He rubs the pad of his index finger across Geralt’s tight pucker, grinning as the tiny furl pulses underneath his touch. Another couple of light touches and then he pushes in, just up to the first knuckle. Geralt opens for him with little resistance, and Jaskier gives him a minute to adjust before starting to move in earnest, using every trick in his (rather extensive) book to make his Witcher moan.

He gets nothing, not a single solitary peep.

Sure, Geralt is obviously relaxing under his ministrations, and a quick peek confirms that _ other  _ parts of his anatomy have started to get involved with the night’s proceedings, but nothing else about his response suggests that the situation is anything other than mildly pleasant for the Witcher. His breathing has even slowed back to what it had been before they’d started kissing.

With a small frown he slowly removes his fingers, wiping them surreptitiously on the sheets next to him as Geralt makes a questioning sound.

“Why did you stop?” 

Jaskier opens his mouth, but finds he doesn’t quite know what to say. He doesn’t want to ask, terrified of what the answer might be, but he knows he can’t go any further without making absolutely sure. “You...you definitely want to do this right?”

Geralt twists, and the look he gives Jaskier over his shoulder is nothing sort of incredulous. “What sort of a question is that?” he asks, canting his hips in clear invitation and turning back to pillow his head on his arms in front of him, and really, there’s not exactly much else Jaskier can say in response to that.

So with a soft hum he lines up behind Geralt, hands splayed wide across those imposing hip bones, and oh-so carefully sides home.

And fuck, the feeling of Geralt’s hot, tight body engulfing him has to be one for the history books. Jaskier is sure he lets out an embarrassingly loud moan as he bottoms out, followed by a string of even more ridiculous noises as he starts to move.

And still there’s nothing from Geralt. No breathless pants, no shuddering limbs. The Witcher is as solid as an oak tree as Jaskier rocks into him, and about as responsive.

Despite the distinct lack of outside participation, Jaskier soon feels a familiar tightening low in his stomach. “Fuck, Geralt, I’m going to-” he begins, his orgasm rushing through him before he can complete his sentence. A heavy exhale and a tightening around his pulsing cock tells him that Geralt has joined him in his release, and so he doesn’t feel like a  _ complete _ failure as he collapses onto the mattress next to his partner.

Still, as somebody who takes great pleasure in seeing his partners satisfied, he still can’t help but feel slightly put out that the biggest reaction he got from Geralt was a couple of barely audible grunts.

They both lie panting for a minute or so, and then Jaskier rolls so that he can face Geralt properly. “So...good?” He cringes at his wavering tone, unused to feeling so unsure of his performance. Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and silently lifts an arm in invitation, and Jaskier decides to take that as an affirmation as he curls in close to Geralt’s side, pointedly ignoring the mess they’ve made of the bed underneath them. 

Geralt falls asleep faster than Jaskier has ever seen, but Jaskier himself has no such luck. He finds himself replaying their encounter over and over again in his head, wondering how on earth their first intimate encounter ended up being so...disappointing.

No, that’s not right, Jaskier adamantly tells himself as he gazes at the Witcher sleeping next to him. Nothing about Geralt of Rivia could ever be considered a  _ disappointment _ , and if this had been a regular tumble with a random local there’s no doubt he would be feeling perfectly satisfied right about now. 

Still, he can’t help but think that the reality of their lovemaking hadn’t  _ quite _ lived up to expectations, lived up to a fantasy that has quite literally been years in the making.

Geralt huffs in his sleep, his strong arm drawing Jaskier closer to him, and Jaskier feels his heart swell at the surprisingly intimate gesture from the usually gruff Witcher. He’d certainly never have taken him for a  _ cuddler _ .

Jaskier lets himself be drawn together so that they’re chest to chest, nose to nose, and silently chastises himself. How long has he been daydreaming about being in this exact situation, and now he’s grousing about the details? Fine, maybe their first time together hadn’t exactly had him seeing stars, but sometimes it takes a bit of time to find a proper rhythm with someone new - or so he’s heard. 

Regardless, they have plenty of time to find what works for them, and even if it never gets better than this, it’s not exactly the end of the world. 

He takes one last look at Geralt’s sleeping features - he looks so much  _ younger _ than when he’s awake - before closing his eyes and letting sleep take him. His last thought before he slips into unconsciousness is that there’s far more to his relationship with the White Wolf than what they get up to between the sheets, and he wouldn’t trade  _ that _ for all the mind-blowing sex in the world. 

* * *

He wakes the next morning with his nose buried unceremoniously in Geralt’s armpit.

It takes him a second to get his bearings, at first assuming he’d merely stumbled into an adoring fan’s bed after yet another successful evening performance. But then the body underneath him makes an oh-so-familiar rumble, and everything comes rushing back to him.

He cautiously shuffles backwards so that his face is free to tilt upwards at his bedmate. Geralt is propped slightly up against the headboard with his arm wrapped lightly around Jaskier’s prone form, and Jaskier must still be half asleep because it looks like the Witcher is actually smiling down at him.

“Good morning,” Geralt says congenially, his voice clear enough to suggest that he’s been awake a while. 

Jaskier blinks slowly. “Yes, yes I suppose it is, isn’t it?” he eventually replies, the slight hitch in his voice no doubt giving away the fact that he’s still scrambling to catch up with this turn of events.

The smile is gone in an instant from Geralt’s face, and Jaskier mourns its disappearance almost as much as the arm that is suddenly retracted from around his shoulders.

“You regret last night,” Geralt states, voice monotone, and the resigned acceptance is heartbreaking enough to finally kick Jaskier’s struggling brain into gear.

“What? No! Not at all.” Jaskier scrambles up onto his knees, cupping Geralt’s face between his hands. “Not for a second, I swear it.”

Geralt is silent for a beat, his eyes boring into Jaskier’s. Eventually he gives a gruff nod of acceptance, and his arm snakes back out to draw Jaskier into his side.

Definitely a cuddler then, that’s good to know.

Jaskier lets himself be repositioned, frowning to himself at the conclusion Geralt had immediately jumped to. He’s once again reminded of Geralt’s passive turn the night before, and a horrible thought suddenly occurs to him.

“And of course nobody ever regrets spending a night with me.” His attempt at humour falls painfully flat, especially when he can’t help but follow up with a plaintive “...Right?”

Geralt scoffs, as if the idea is too silly to even contemplate, and then does the unthinkable and presses a soft kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “Not for a second,” he repeats back to him, and Jaskier thinks he feels his insides quite literally melt.

“Well that’s, erm, that’s good,” he trips over his words, feeling the blush spread across his cheeks as Geralt simply continues to smile down at him. Thankfully he’s saved from further embarrassment by his stomach, which chooses that moment to let out an ungodly rumble.

“I guess that’s my cue to get up,” he says reluctantly, a little sad to be leaving Geralt’s embrace quite so soon.

Geralt says nothing, simply leans over to grab a linen bundle from the bedside table. He unties the knot at the top and opens it on the bed in front of him, and Jaskier is delighted to see a veritable breakfast feast contained within.

“Oh my, don’t tell me you spoil all your bedmates like this,” he teases happily as he plucks a crisp red apple out of the bundle, biting into it with a satisfying crunch.

Geralt mumbles something, but the words are lost under the sound of Jaskier’s chewing and he hastily swallows down his mouthful. “What was that?”

“You deserve to be spoiled after...before,” Geralt repeats, looking thoroughly contrite, and Jaskier’s heart breaks a little bit in response.

“Hey now, none of that,” he replies softly, putting his apple down and carefully maneuvering himself without disrupting the contents on the bed until he’s straddling Geralt’s waist. A small thrill runs through him as Geralt’s hands immediately find their way to his hips, drawing him closer rather than pushing him away like a small part of him still fears might happen at any minute. “You apologised and I forgave you, and what’s done is done. You know I’m not the type to hold grudges, my love.”

Geralt grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like  _ Valdo Marx _ as he buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, but Jaskier chooses not to hear that as he wraps his arms around his Witcher and holds him close. 

They stay wrapped in each other until Jaskier’s stomach complains again, at which point they separate just far enough that they can both eat. At least some part of their bodies are touching at all times, and Jaskier thrills at the thought that it’s an intentional act on Geralt’s part; given his heightened awareness it could hardly be accidental, after all.

The casual touches continue as they pack up the room, a hand stroking across his hip as Geralt walks past, a gentle shoulder nudge when he needs Jaskier to move, and Jaskier has to consciously stop himself from cackling with glee every time it happens. While it’s true that Geralt has mellowed over the years, Jaskier is pretty sure he’s enjoyed more touches this morning than he’s received from Geralt in the past  _ decade _ .

Geralt even lets Jaskier ride Roach for a stretch as they leave the town, the mare making a show of being indignant even as she gently headbutts Jaskier in greeting. They quickly fall into their usual travelling patterns, Jaskier strumming disjointed chords on his lute as he natters away, and Geralt replying with grunts that sound like they’re mostly in the affirmative. 

It’s everything Jaskier has never let himself dream of, and as the sun hits its zenith across the sky he can’t help thinking that this, right here, is all he ever needs in life.

* * *

It’s not all he needs.

Jaskier is fully aware that he’s a sexual creature. He thrives on the intimate closeness of the act, revels in the feeling of seeing his lover come undone under his touch. He’d happily give up a great many things for his Witcher,  _ has _ happily given up many things including fine clothes, fine food, and fine lodgings. Most of the finer things in life, really, and that’s okay, it  _ is _ .

But he can’t give up sex, he just can’t.

Or perhaps he should be more specific, since there’s far from a lack of sex in their relationship. He can’t give up  _ good _ sex, and as much as he hates to admit it, his encounters with Geralt have yet to reach anything better than distinctly average.

Melitele’s tits, but he’s  _ tried _ . He’s busted out every trick he can possibly think of to improve things. He’s used moves that have made even the most timid of maidens wail in pleasure, contorted himself into positions that would make lesser men weep. He’s stroked, and sucked, and fucked, and Geralt’s response to all of it could  _ at most  _ be categorised as fond.

He hates to even think it, but there’s really only so much he can do when he’s the only one actually doing anything. Geralt is like a sack of potatoes in bed, treating the act of lovemaking like something that is done to him, rather than by him. For a while Jaskier thought it might be what Geralt imagined was expected of him in the receiving role - which brought up a whole other host of questions, but ones that could at least be addressed - but when he suggested they switch things up Geralt insisted that Jaskier straddle him and ride him to completion. 

Honestly, Jaskier has had more active participation from magically spelled toys.

It all reaches a head about a month after their reunion. They’ve been on the road for almost a week, and Jaskier is cold, and hungry and  _ desperately _ horny. He sneaks a glance at Geralt, who’s sitting next to him cooking the two rabbits he’d caught earlier, and not for the first time wishes for an easy, reciprocal fuck.

He’s not a selfish lover - he  _ isn’t _ , ask any of his part paramours - but sometimes it would be nice to not have to do all of the gods-damn work. He doesn’t think that’s too much of an unreasonable request, really.

Geralt tilts his head to look at him, nostrils flaring slightly, and rests the rabbit skewers over a low-burning part of the fire. He silently heads over towards their saddlebags and returns with the oil, and Jaskier wants to scream.

“What’s that for?” he asks wearily, even though they both know the answer is obvious.

“You’re aroused,” Geralt replies simply, and Jaskier can’t hold back his exhausted groan. Curse those inhuman senses, would it have been so hard for Geralt to feign ignorance just once?

“Are you?” With the right inflection it could have sounded flirtatious, but Jaskier knows he just sounds tired.

Geralt frowns, brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Jaskier sighs heavily, rubbing his forefingers against his temples. He’s far from being in the right state of mind to really do this conversation justice, but it seems like they’re having it regardless.

“Be honest with me Geralt, what do you think of the sex we’ve been having, really?”

Geralt tilts his head to the side like he often does when trying to decipher unexpected human behaviour. “It’s…it’s nice.”

“Nice! Nice, he says, like that word isn’t the death-knell for artists everywhere.” Jaskier can’t help it as he reaches out to grasp at both of Geralt’s shoulders, shaking him lightly enough that Geralt just goes with it. “My dear, my love, my truly idiotic Witcher. Sex isn’t supposed to be nice, it’s supposed to be  _ incendiary _ .”

Geralt’s expression shutters, and Jaskier immediately feels a thousand tons of guilt land squarely on his shoulders. But he’s committed now, and the only way out is through.

“I say this with the utmost affection, my darling, but I have never lain with a partner so completely checked out of the whole proceedings. Can you honestly tell me that there is nothing, not one single thing, that you would change about our lovemaking?”

Geralt’s expression grows even more stony, and he moves to turn away. Jaskier keeps his hands firmly on his shoulders, keeping them facing one another, and while they both know that Geralt could easily break out of his grasp if he really wanted, he thankfully lets Jaskier keep him in place.

“Maybe this is just how I am in bed,” he mutters, staring at the earth by Jaskier’s feet. “I’m sorry I’m not as  _ impressive _ as your other lovers have clearly been.”

Jaskier snorts his dismissal of that claim. “You forget we’ve shared a wall enough times for me to know what you’re capable of sounding like in bed. And I’ve  _ seen _ you with Yennefer more times than I’d ever truly care to. You’re not a passive lover Geralt, not normally. What is it about me that makes you so uninterested?”

A horrible thought crosses Jaskier’s mind as he verbalises the question that’s been dancing around his brain for so long, and he releases Geralt’s shoulders like they’re suddenly red hot. He takes a large step backwards, one hand coming up to his mouth in horror.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says in alarm, taking a step towards Jaskier, but Jaskier holds his hand up to stop him from coming any closer.

“Is this some sort of penance for you?” he practically whispers, feeling sick to his stomach at the very idea. “You knew how much I desired you, and thought indulging me was how you could make up for your actions on the mountain?”

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt sounds heartbroken, hand reaching out towards Jaskier but not coming any closer just like he asked. “No, no that’s not…”

“Do you even want me? Or is sleeping with me an obligation that you’ve convinced yourself you have to endure?” Jaskier’s hands come up to card frantically through his hair. He knows he’s starting to sound hysterical, but now that the thought has crossed his mind it can’t be un-thought. “Gods, have I...have I been  _ forcing _ you all this time?”

“No!” Geralt shouts loud enough to disturb some nesting birds above them, and in the aftermath of their shrieking exit the silence between them is deafening. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something,  _ anything _ , but for once no words come out.

“It’s not that I don’t want you.” Geralt’s face twists like he’s forcing himself to admit some sordid secret. “It’s that I want you too much.”

And with that admission and he crumples in on himself, slumping to sit heavily on the floor, head buried in his hands. 

Jaskier tenses in surprise, struggling to comprehend what Geralt is trying to say. After a long, awkward beat he shuffles to sit down next to Geralt, trying his best to look and sound reassuring. “Alright, it’s okay, we’re both okay,” he says, patting Geralt’s shoulder gingerly. “I am going to need you to explain that one a bit, though.”

Geralt gives a heavy sigh, and for a moment Jaskier thinks he’s going to ignore him, but eventually he lifts his head and turns to face Jaskier with a look of consternation. 

“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, ever.” His voice is completely matter of fact, like he hasn’t just confessed something that Jaskier’s never even let himself dream of hearing. “I want you so much, and I can’t stand the idea of hurting you.”

Jaskier can’t help but let out an incredulous snort. “Okay yes, I will admit you’re rather generously endowed, but - and as much as I hate to break this to you - you’re far from the biggest I’ve ever taken.”

“No, not like that.” Geralt’s face twists into something uncomfortable, clearly steeling himself for this next bit. “Witchers are made for destruction. Our mutagens were designed to help us tear monsters apart limb from limb, to let us fight creatures five times our size and  _ win.  _ I have to hold myself back every second I’m with you, because one wrong move and I could quite literally break every bone in your body.”

Oh... _ oh _ .

The magnitude of what Geralt is trying to tell him takes its time to sink in. Of course he knew that Geralt was powerful, far more so than any regular human. But hearing it laid out in such bald terms is somehow different. 

“But...Yennefer?” he finally says, “I know you never held back with her.”

Geralt chuckles wryly at that, which just makes Jaskier frown. (Okay, so he’s still a little jealous of Yennefer, he doesn’t think that’s too unreasonable all things considered.) “She’s a sorceress, she’s strong. Quite possibly stronger than me.” 

“Even so, I’ve heard you with other partners.  _ Human _ partners. You’ve never seemed to have an issue with them.”

“It’s not a problem when there’s no attachment, when I’m with someone whose company is pleasant enough for an evening, but stranger enough to stay removed from. I can’t do that with you.” Geralt pauses, looking down at the ground as he finishes his admission. “Don’t think I ever could, really.”

“It’s okay, love. I promise I want you just as much.” Jaskier reassures, wondering if it’s the emotional component that is tripping up his usually recalcitrant Witcher. He tries to put his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, but he shrugs him off with a snarl, standing and twisting so that he’s facing Jaskier head on.

“No, you don’t get it! When I’m with you I just want to take, and take, and  _ take _ . There’s this beast inside of me that wants to devour you,  _ consume _ you! It wants everything you have, and then more besides. I can’t let myself go, not even a little, because if I do I won’t be able to stop taking until there’s nothing left for you to give.”

Jaskier stares up at Geralt, the Witcher’s chest heaving with exertion like he’s just battled a hoard of drowners, and blinks slowly. Once. Twice.  _ Fuck _ . 

“You know, I think that might be the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“ _ Jaskier _ !” Geralt throws his hands above his head in exasperation. “For once, just once, can you  _ please _ think about what you’re saying.”

“I am!” Jaskier stands up and reaches out toward Geralt, silently begging the Witcher not to flee from him. “I love you, Geralt, but more than that I  _ trust _ you.” 

He takes a slow step forward, eyes fixed determinedly on Geralt, watching for any indication that the Witcher is about to bolt. “I’ve lost track of the number of times you’ve stepped between me and trouble, you always say it’s the last time but it never is.” 

Another step. Geralt’s expression twists into something that looks almost painful, but he doesn’t move. “I’ve seen you after battles, strung out on potions and still convinced you’re surrounded by foe, and yet you still let me tend to you.” 

One last step, he’s close enough that he can cup Geralt’s face in his hands, and so he does. “You might not trust yourself not to lose control, but I do. I know you won’t hurt me, not like this.” 

“You can’t possibly know that.” Geralt’s voice comes out as a devastated whisper, and Jaskier can’t help but lean in and try and gently kiss away the hurt. 

“Nobody knows anything for certain, but I’m confident in my odds.” 

For a long moment there’s silence between them, and Jaskier forces himself to hold his tongue as he watches a riot of emotions play out across Geralt’s usually impassive face. He can practically see the Witcher working through everything that’s just been said, searching for falsehoods or misrepresentation.

“Hmm,” Geralt finally says reluctantly, and Jaskier grins, knowing he’s all but won.

“Ooh, we could have a safeword. It’s been a while since I’ve had one one of those.”

“Safeword?” Geralt asks with a head-tilt, looking - in Jaskier’s opinion - adorably confused.

Jaskier beckons for them both to sit back down, fingers curling in Geralt’s and placing their joined hands in his lap. “A safeword is a word either of us can say if anything gets too much and we need things to stop immediately.”

“So…” Geralt furrows his brow, clearly thinking hard about what Jaskier is suggesting. “If I hurt you, you’d say this safeword and I’d know to stop?” 

“Well obviously it works both ways, so if I did anything you didn’t like you could say it as well.” Jaskier makes sure to clarify. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow, like the concept of Jaskier doing anything unappealing to him is too silly to even contemplate, but thankfully doesn’t argue that particular point. “But what if I don’t hear? What if-” Geralt swallows, and forces himself to continue, ”-what if I’m too far gone to listen?”

“Well firstly, I don’t actually believe you’d ever be in such a state that you wouldn’t listen to me if I said stop. But part of the point of safewords is that we can choose something that would be so unexpected to hear in bed that it’ll help to snap you out of whatever headspace you’re in.” Jaskier taps his finger to his lip, thinking. “So for example, if I said ‘Vesemir’ while we were in bed together, that would be pretty hard to ignore right?”

Geralt blanches at the idea of his adoptive father’s name being used in the bedroom. “That...would definitely be unexpected.”

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” Jaskier says, sensing that he’s about to come up against Geralt’s limit for this sort of conversation. “Just promise me you’ll think about it, yeah?”

There’s a long pause from Geralt, during which Jaskier tries his damndest to look sympathetic and not to fidget, before eventually the Witcher gives a heavy sigh. “I just...you’ve never smelt of fear around me, not once. You don’t know how rare that is in humans. I…I can’t lose that.”

“You won’t, I promise.” Jaskier hastens to reassure. “You could never.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s grunt is as dismissive as ever, but the small twitch to the edge of his mouth tells a whole different story.


	2. Chapter 2

“I got something while I was in the village today.”

Geralt looks up from the corner of their room where he’s been sitting cleaning his armour, and Jaskier waves a small drawstring bag at him.

“It’s not more salts for the bathwater is it?” Geralt asks warily, “You know that last concoction of yours threw off my sense of smell for a week.”

Jaskier blows a raspberry dismissively, and moves to sit cross-legged in front of the Witcher. “This is far more fun, I promise you,” he says, upending the contents of the bag into his palm and holding it up for Geralt to see.

It’s a small pendant, made of a greenish rock with symbols carved into the face. A thin silver chain runs through a tiny hole, allowing it to be worn around a neck or wrist. Jaskier had paid altogether too much for it, but if it achieves what he’s hoping then he’ll consider it coin very well spent.

“I heard that this town has a sorceress who specialises in some...niche areas,” he explains. “You remember the conversation we had the other day about safewords?”

Geralt frowns, looking incredibly suspicious, but he nods his head in assent which Jaskier takes as permission to continue.

“Now, I want it stated for the record that I don’t think I need this, but if it will make you feel more comfortable I am happy to wear it  _ despite _ the fact that this horrific shade of green will do absolutely nothing for my complexion. Honestly, of all the blasted rocks on the Continent-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts with a pointed eyebrow rage, and Jaskier swallows his material objections.

“Right, to the point.” He hands the pendant over to Geralt for inspection, who hums consideringly as his medallion starts to vibrate, warning him of nearby magic. “This is charmed with a protection spell, I’m told it’s similar to your  _ Aard _ sign. If I repeat a given word three times it will emit an outward pulse, forcing anybody nearby to move away from me.”

“A given word…” Geralt ponders, turning the pendant over in his hands. “Like a safeword?”

“Exactly.” Jaskier smiles, pleased that Geralt picked up his meaning so quickly.

“Smart,” Geralt says, and Jaskier feels his smile grow wider. “But why three times? Why not hit me straight away if I’ve done something to make you safeword?”

“A safeword isn’t supposed to mean that you’ve done something unforgivable,” Jaskier explains. “It’s a signal to pause, regroup, and talk about what made either of us need to stop. This here is simply a failsafe, something to - hopefully - assuage your concerns. Like I said, I have every faith in you listening and stopping if I need you to, so I’m not going to blast you with a magical attack if i don’t absolutely have to.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but it’s one of his more agreeable hums. “But…you would use it if you needed to?” 

“I swear it,” Jaskier says solemnly, covering Geralt’s hands with his own and looking him dead in the eye as he speaks.

“Okay,” Geralt finally says. “But we’re not using Vesemir, I’d never be able to look the old man in the eye again.”

Jaskier grins wryly, plucking the pendant out of Geralt’s hands and clipping the chain around his neck. “I suppose that is fair. What would you rather use instead, my dear Witcher?”

Geralt considers the question for a moment. “Valdo,” he finally decides. “I’d never expect to hear you say that name in bed so it would be just as much of a shock, and it’ll be no great loss to give any more negative associations to that asshole.”

“I do so love that my enemies are now your enemies.” Jaskier chuckles fondly, tapping the pendant like the sorceress had shown him. “Pendant, your word is ‘Valdo’”.

The pendant hums in response, and Jaskier grins up at Geralt, who looks torn between apprehensive and excited.

“So...what happens now?” Geralt asks.

“Well, I meant it when I said you don’t have to decide anything straight away,” Jaskier says, wondering if he’s imagining the quick flutter of disappointment across Geralt’s features. “We have a safeword now, and an extra safety net which I hope will ease some of your concerns, but this is all on your schedule. Nothing happens unless and until you want it to.”

“And if…” Geralt looks like the words are getting stuck behind his teeth, but he perseveres onwards. “If I said I had decided? That I...I wanted to try?”

Jaskier exhales heavily, a rush of arousal hitting him so hard his legs almost buckle. “Well then I would say come here and kiss me,” he breathes, and Geralt is upon him before he’s even finished speaking.

And  _ fuck _ , Jaskier practically melts under the onslaught. Geralt’s teeth nip at his lower lip, tiny pricks of sharpness that are immediately soothed by the warmth of his mouth. Jasker whimpers and throws his arms around Geralt’s neck, drawing the Witcher closer and inviting him to take more, more, more.

Geralt’s large hands stroke up his back, his sword-callused fingers slipping underneath his tunic to graze across his skin. They move up to his shoulder blades then track back down again, making Jaskier shiver as they stroke along his spine, before rounding the curve of his buttocks and squeezing.

Jaskier yelps as the ground disappears underneath him, thrilling at how just effortless it is for Geralt to carry him over to their gratifyingly large bed. He refuses to stop their kissing as they move - choosing to focus on Geralt rather than his surroundings - so it comes as something of a surprise when he finds himself sprawling across the surface of the bed. 

He hastily rearranges his limbs into something he hopes is a touch more seductive and looks coyly up at Geralt, who’s standing at the foot of the bed and looking down at Jaskier like he’s a feast he’s not sure he’s allowed to devour.

“Well, are you going to join me or not?” he asks with a wink, and he’s sure he isn’t imagining the moan that escapes Geralt before the Witcher descends upon him.

Geralt is everywhere, his mouth back on Jaskier and his hands roaming across every inch of available body. Jaskier’s fingers dig into his shoulders, and he responds with just as much energy. He feels alight inside, his body gorging itself on the attention after so many weeks starving for it.

He feels fingers curl into the sides of his tunic, and squarks in alarm at the telltale sound of ripping seams. “Ack! Geralt!”

Geralt moves so fast Jaskier would have sworn he was dosed up on Blizzard, practically flinging himself off the end of the bed in his haste to put space between the two of them. Jaskier curses his own poor reaction as he scrambles up onto his knees, holding his hands up placatingly.

“Wait! It’s okay,” he hastens to clarify, hating the haunted look that has replaced Geralt’s previous eagerness. “It’s just...well...this is my favorite tunic and I’d be loath to have to replace it.”

Geralt opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, looking thoroughly confused, and Jaskier sighs heavily, wishing he hadn’t said anything. No tunic is worth this interruption, not even one that’s hand-stitched by the master craftsmen of Toussaint. 

“Look, I’m just going to put this over here....” He quickly shrugs out of his tunic and throws the offending garment into the corner, leaving him in just his chemise and hose. “And now I have absolutely no issues with you ripping any of my remaining clothing off my body. I welcome it, in fact.”

“You do?” Geralt cocks his head to the side, his expression still confused but now mixed with a pleasing hint of interest.

Jaskier flops backwards onto the bed, making a point of throwing his arms above his head dramatically. “Oh absolutely. Now come ravage me, my dearest Witcher.”

Geralt hesitates for just a moment, and then he’s moving with that beautifully unnatural grace of his to join Jaskier on the bed again. Jaskier moans in pleasure as he feels Geralt’s weight settle on top of him, pressed close together from thigh to chest. He lifts one hand to cup the back of Geralt’s head, urging him onwards as Geralt starts to pepper kisses along Jaskier’s jawline and down his neck.

Geralt’s mouth closes over a spot just above his collarbone, and Jaskier feels just a hint of teeth before it’s gone; a silent question if he ever heard one. He groans and arches up into the contact. “Yes. Fuck. Do it,” he says, one hand tightening in Geralt’s hair as the other scrabbles at his shoulder in encouragement. “Mark me up, show everyone that I’m yours.”

Geralt makes a punched-out, wounded noise and Jaskier gasps at the sudden blunt pressure as the Witcher does as asked, working over the sensitive skin of his neck with startling vigour. He works his way down the long column of Jaskier’s neck, taking his time as he sucks and licks and nips, and Jaskier just knows that come tomorrow his usually pale skin will be mottled purple. 

The thought triggers something deep and heady in his chest. He’s always been something of an exhibitionist, and what better way to show off than with a Witcher’s claim worked into his skin?

The attention doesn’t stop when Geralt reaches his collarbone, and true to their prior conversation Jaskier’s undergarments quickly find themselves in tatters on the floor. Jaskier keens at the sudden rush of cool air against his skin, bucking up into the sharp sensation as Geralt rakes his gaze over Jaskier’s naked body. The look in his eye can only be described as predatory, and Jaskier can’t help his visible shudder of anticipation.

Geralt’s eyes darken at the gesture, and almost immediately his mouth returns to Jaskier’s flesh. Jaskier can feel himself winding tighter and tighter as his partner diligently works his way down his body, over his chest and across the toned expanse of his stomach. By the time he reaches the sensitive skin just above Jaskier’s hip bones the bard is a babbling mess, his usually extensive vocabulary reduced to “Fuck”, “Yes”, and “Oh gods more.”

Jaskier yelps as Geralt’s teeth catch on the sharp jut of his hip bone, jerking up into the sting, and Geralt responds by making a noise low in his chest and laying an arm across Jaskier’s waist to pin him to the bed.

“Behave,” Geralt growls and  _ fuck _ does that do terrible things to Jaskier’s already frantic arousal. Jaskier whimpers and thrusts weakly against Geralt’s hold. He wants more, so much more.

“Geralt, please,” he whispers, one hand scrabbling blindly for the oil he (optimistically) stored in the top drawer of their bedside table. His fingers wrap around cool glass, and he practically throws the vial at Geralt’s head in his eagerness. “Need to feel you inside me. Now.”

Geralt lifts his head and shifts onto his knees, expression dark and enticing as he grabs the oil and pours a generous amount onto his fingers. His touch is feather-light as it brushes against Jaskier’s entrance, a direct contrast to the palpable current of arousal running through the air around them.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines as Geralt strokes the very tip tip of his index finger across Jaskier’s hole. “Geralt,  _ please _ .”

“What do you want?” Geralt says, his movements still teasingly light. “Use your words.”

An almost hysterical laugh bubbles its way out of Jaskier’s throat. “Use your words, he says, like he isn’t ninety percent mute ninety percent of the time.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt chides, removing his hand from Jaskier’s ass and making the bard almost sob at the loss. 

“ _ Fuck _ , okay. I want those gorgeous fucking fingers inside me, is that what you want to hear? I want you to fill me up, to fuck me silly until I can’t remember my own name.”

“Already pretty fucking silly,” Geralt mutters, voice undeniably fond. Jaskier is of half a mind to argue but before he can say anything two oiled fingers slip inside of him and any words he might have said are replaced by a guttural moan.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier gasps, relishing the sudden stretch that’s just the right side of too much. “Gods, fuck,  _ Geralt _ .”

Geralt holds his hand perfectly still, letting Jaskier writhe on his fingers but not adding any friction himself. Jaskier watches as he licks his lips appreciatively, his usually slit pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost entirely black.

“Hnnngh,” Jaskier says eloquently as finally,  _ finally  _ Geralt starts to move, pulling his fingers almost languidly out and sliding them back in almost as slowly. It’s gorgeous. It’s sublime. It’s not nearly enough. 

“More, I need more.”

“You need what I give you,” Geralt counters, his focus entirely fixed on where his fingers are disappearing into Jaskier’s body. 

“ _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier whines, thrusting his hips down to try and increase the stimulation. 

In an instant Geralt has moved so that his body is hovering over Jaskier, one knee sliding up towards Jaskier’s hips so that he can cage him against the bed. “I said  _ behave _ ,” he growls as his spare hand comes to curl around Jaskier’s throat. Not restricting his air flow, but an undeniable presence nonetheless.

Jaskier’s breath hitches, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Geralt’s palm, and watches as Geralt’s eyes widen with realisation at what he’s just done. Both of them freeze, and Jaskier can just tell that his Witcher is seconds away from balking, convinced he’s managed to go too far.

Slowly, so as not to shatter this fragile pause, Jaskier lifts his hand and covers Geralt’s own across his throat. 

“Yes,” he says, pressing down so that the word comes out just a little breathless, trusting Geralt with his most treasured possession; his voice. “ _ Yes _ .”

Geralt groans, his fingers flexing against Jaskier’s neck, and he surges up to kiss Jaskier, deep and desperate. Jaskier kisses back with just as much enthusiasm, whimpering in delight as Geralt starts to pump his fingers into him with more urgency. 

“Yes, fuck,  _ ahh _ ,” he gasps as Geralt finger-fucks him hard enough to shift him up and down the bed, then positively wails when Geralt curls his fingers and starts to stroke unerringly at that wondrous spot inside of him that makes him see stars. He can feel the noises in his throat vibrating against Geralt’s large palm, taste him on his lips, and it’s all so good it’s almost enough to send him over the edge already.

“Fuck me, now” he demands, suddenly finding the idea of coming without Geralt inside of him wholly unacceptable. “Geralt I swear if I don’t get your cock inside me this very instant-”

Before he can finish his sentence Geralt’s fingers slip out of him, but he doesn’t have time to even think about mourning their loss before the world is moving around him, and he finds himself flipped onto his stomach. One hand on each of his hips hauls him up and back, and he scrambles to get his hands and knees underneath him as Geralt chuckles softly behind him.

“Gods you look good like this, presenting for me,” Geralt mutters, using both of his hands to spread Jaskier’s cheeks and expose his hole. Jaskier shivers as cool air hits his oil-slick entrance, fully aware of just how lewd this position looks from behind, and he curves his spine to better showcase his ass.

Geralt lets out an almost feral growl, letting go with his right hand and sliding it up and along Jaskier’s back until he reaches his opposite shoulder. He pushes firmly on Jaskier’s shoulder blade, forcing his upper body forward and down. At the same time he uses his other hand to shove his trousers down just enough that he can line his cock up with Jaskier’s entrance.

Jaskier has just about enough time to register blunt pressure against his hole, and then Geralt is sliding home in one smooth motion.

It feels like all the air is forced out of his lungs as his insides hasten to accommodate Geralt’s length. He keens, throwing his head back as he’s speared open, gasping through the sudden stretch. His Witcher is proportioned in all areas, and his cock is considerably larger than the two fingers he’d just had inside of Jaskier.

“That’s it, you’re taking me so well,” Geralt croons, one hand still on Jaskier’s shoulder as the other comes up to splay across his lower back. Jaskier whimpers, feeling overwhelmed in all the best ways as Geralt slowly draws out and then slams his way back in again. He can feel the rough scratch of fabric against his ass, and something in him thrills at the counterpoint of his nakedness against Geralt’s fully clothed state.

Geralt doesn’t give him a chance to adjust, immediately setting up a punishing pace that has Jaskier bracing against the headboard. Pinned between Geralt’s hands and his cock there’s nothing he can do but hold on and take what he’s given, and it feels  _ incredible _ .

He’s quickly reduced to a constant litany of breathy exhales and curses, losing track of everything except Geralt. The Witcher is everywhere, invading all of his senses, and Jaskier thinks he could very well drown in it. 

He’s getting closer and closer to his peak, but his cock remains untouched between his legs. The pressure building low in his gut is bordering on painful, he’s teetering on the edge but can’t quite drop. He needs...something... _ anything _ . He doesn’t know what but he knows that Geralt can give it to him.

“Geralt,” he whispers, plaintive. “Geralt, I need-” He almost sobs as a firm hand wraps around his cock, working him over with purpose. He barely lasts two strokes before he’s coming with a wail, his spend coating the sheets beneath them.

He’s left utterly boneless in the wake of his release, and it takes him a moment to come back to himself. Geralt’s hand has left his cock and he’s wrapped his arm around Jaskier’s waist to keep him upright, his thrusts still as demanding as ever. 

Geralt must have sensed Jaskier’s soul returning to his body, as he immediately draws out and flips Jaskier onto his back. Jaskier lands with a soft  _ oof - _ thankfully on a dry part of the mattress - and looks up to see Geralt prowling his way up his chest.

Their mouths meet in a frenzied crash, Jaskier’s arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck and drawing him as close as he can, while Geralt braces himself with one hand and uses the other to bend one of Jaskier’s legs up towards his ear. He slides in again easily - barely any resistance now that Jaskier is loose and pliant from orgasm - and starts to rock determinedly against Jaskier’s ass once more.

Jaskier gasps into Geralt’s mouth as the fucking resumes, every nerve in his body sparking as he skims the line between _ so good _ and _ too much _ . His hands scrabble at Geralt’s shoulders, holding on for dear life as the Witcher chases his release.

“Can you come for me again?” Geralt breaks their kiss just long enough to ask, panting oh-so slightly as he does.

“I...maybe,” Jaskier finds himself admitting hesitantly. “One is usually my limit but…”

Geralt’s smile is all teeth as he wraps a hand once more around Jaskier’s cock, which has valiantly returned to full hardness. He’s not nearly as close as he was last time, and honestly he’s not sure if he’s tipped into overstimulated territory, but he surrenders himself to the sensations regardless as Geralt’s movements take on that erratic edge that foreshadows his own climax.

Geralt shudders and freezes, burying his head in Jaskier’s neck and biting down against already sensitive bruises as he comes. It’s that unexpected spike of pain that sets Jaskier off a second time, and he spills with a desperate cry between their chests.

Geralt releases the skin between his teeth, lapping at the spot with his tongue in silent apology. “Mine,” he mutters lowly before kissing at the spot again, and it’s all Jaskier can do not to laugh at the ridiculously endearing gesture. 

It wouldn’t do to scare him off from doing it again, after all.

He pats absently at Geralt’s shoulder, feeling rather like an overcooked pastry. His insides have turned to mush, and he’s reasonably sure if he tries to move too fast he’ll just disintegrate. “ _ Whoof _ ,” he exhales, rather hoping that the general noise will convey everything he’s feeling right now. “That was really something.”

Geralt lifts his head from where he’s been lavishing yet more attention on Jaskier’s neck, a slight frown appearing between his brows. “Something good?” he asks, sounding so genuinely concerned that this time Jaskier can’t help his soft chuckle.

“Very good,” he says, stretching his legs and immediately wincing. “I may not be able to move for a week, but totally worth it.”

Contrary to being reassured though, Geralt’s frown only deepens. Jaskier has but a second to wonder why before the weight on top of him disappears, and he finds himself bundled into Geralt’s arms bridal style.

“Geralt!” he exclaims, a mix of surprised and delighted as he wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck to steady himself. Geralt holds him almost possessively close as he carries him through to their adjoined washroom, where a tub is already sitting filled with water.

Geralt shifts Jaskier in his arms to free one of his hands, and a quick  _ Igni  _ later and the surface of the water is faintly steaming and smelling of…

“Is there lavender in there?” Jaskier asks curiously, sniffing at the subtle scents that fill the air.

Geralt shrugs, the gesture jostling Jaskier still in his arms. “It’s your favourite,” he says in answer. 

“Well aren’t you thoughtful,” he says, wriggling slightly to be put down. “But how did you know we’d need it?”

Geralt shrugs again, looking decidedly more embarrassed this time even as he shepherds Jaskier over towards the tub. “I didn’t know we’d be doing...what we did. But I figured you’d want to bathe while we were in a town.”

Jaskier doesn’t coo at the gesture, but it’s a very close thing. Instead he turns and cups Geralt’s face in his hands, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asks no one in particular. 

“I’m the one who should be asking that question,” Geralt replies quietly as Jaskier steps into the tub and settles in. His groan of pleasure as the warm water rushes over him is perhaps more obscene than anything he’d just spouted in bed, but  _ fuck _ does it feel good against his overtaxed muscles. 

“I suppose we’ll just have to agree to disagree,” he sighs, closing his eyes and leaning contentedly back against the edge of the tub.

“Hmmm,” Geralt replies, showing what he thinks of that idea, but then his fingers to card through Jaskier’s hair, just like Jaskier has done to him a hundred times before, and Jaskier can’t find it in him to press his point.

For a while after that there’s silence, Jaskier relaxing under Geralt’s ministrations as the Witcher moves from his scalp to his shoulders, digging out the knots there with surprising dexterity. He’s just on the cusp of sleep when Geralt speaks again, and the words filter into his brain jumbled and confused.

“What was that, love?” he asks, cracking one eye and twisting slightly so that he can just catch a glimpse of Geralt behind him.

“I said, you still don’t smell afraid.” Geralt’s hands have stilled on his shoulders, like his whole focus is on what he’s just admitted.

Jaskier frowns, turning around in the tub so that he’s on his knees facing Geralt. “Why on earth would I smell afraid?”

Geralt frowns, then stands up without answering. He stalks over towards the counter on the far side of the room, and returns with Jaskier’s hand mirror. “Look,” he says, thrusting the mirror towards Jaskier.

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to frown, but he does as asked and brings the mirror up in front of him. 

The first thing he sees is the pink flush to his cheeks, the very particular tousle to his hair that can only come from a good fuck. It’s a good look on him, if he does say so himself, and he’s about to say as much when his gaze drops slightly lower.

As he’d expected, the delicate skin of his neck is a kaleidoscope of colours, with bruises spanning at least four shades of blue and purple. They’re wrapped in a thick band just above this collarbone, and Jaskier thinks he might even see the ghost of a thumbprint on the left hand side. He reaches his free hand up to poke one, and hisses in delight at the sharp sting that it elicits.

“Oh wow,” he breathes, fingers continuing to trace across his new collar, thrilling as he sees that the marks extend fully down his torso, along with some vertical scratches that can only have come from Geralt’s nails. “That is some seriously impressive work you’ve done there.”

“You don’t mind?” Geralt sounds more hesitant than Jaskier has ever heard him, and he draws his gaze away from the glorious mess of his neck to see Geralt looking almost ashamed.

“Mind?” Jaskier asks, carefully putting the hand mirror down on the edge of the tub and shimmying forward to grab Geralt’s shoulders. “My darling, I love it. I will show these off proudly until they fade, and then I desperately hope you’ll be willing to replace them.”

Geralt makes a startled noise deep in the back of his throat, and he surges forward to kiss Jaskier. Jaskier meets him gladly, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck and showing him just how much he doesn’t mind his current state.

“I love you, I trust you,” Jaskier mutters between kisses, needing to say it as much as he thinks Geralt needs to hear it. “Still, always, forever.”

Geralt whines against Jaskier’s lips and then there’s an almighty splash as the Witcher clambers into the bath, still fully clothed. Jaskier yelps and shimmies backwards to make space, but Geralt just follows him forwards, until Jaskier’s back bumps against the other side of the tub.

“Mine,” Geralt growls, the words ghosting across Jaskier’s spit-slick lips and making him shiver with the promise. 

“Yours,” Jaskier agrees, the room filling with the smell of leather and lavender as Geralt surges forward to devour him once more.

* * *

Almost all of the bathwater ends up on the floor after that, and Jaskier is pretty sure they’ll never be able to stay in this town again given the incredibly dirty looks the innkeeper had given them on their way out, but as he saunters his way along the road out of town, doublet unbuttoned and chemise unlaced, plucking the strings of his lute and humming little ditties that make Geralt swear, scowl, and make him promise never to play in public (in that order), he finds he can’t wait to reach the next town and do it all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've created this as a series as I have a sequel floating around my head I'd love to get on paper at some point, let me know what you think, and if there's anything else you'd like to see these boys get up to!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back with some more Geraskier! This one is a bit of a curveball - apparently I decided to try my hand at writing intentionally bad sex scenes (as opposed to unintentionally bad sex scenes!)! Don't worry these two will get their reward for enduring this indignancy in the next chapter, which I should have out in the next couple of days.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!


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